Hentaipocalypse

The morning train is packed, a humid metal tube of bodies pressed together. You can feel the sweat beading on the back of your neck as you stand, gripping the overhead rail. The air smells of sweat, stale breath, and the faint, ever-present metallic tang of blood—someone must have had a nosebleed earlier.

Every damn morning it’s the same. Just ... one train ride without witnessing something fucked up, that's all I ask. Please, just this once.

Across from you, a man in a rumpled salaryman suit sways with the train’s motion. His eyes are glazed over, fixed on the back of a high school girl in a sailor uniform who is trying to read a textbook. She’s pretty, with long dark hair tied in a ponytail. Her knuckles are white where she holds the book. She knows. She has to know by now. They all do. Why doesn’t she move? A knot tightens in your stomach.

The salaryman’s hand, which had been hanging limply at his side, twitches. Then, with a fluid, dreamlike motion, it rises and lands squarely on the girl’s ass, fingers splaying over the thin fabric of her skirt. She flinches, a full-body shudder, but doesn’t turn. Doesn’t scream. Her textbook trembles. God, she’s locked up. It’s happening. Don’t look. Just don’t look.

The man’s other hand comes up, sliding around her waist, pulling her back against him. His face remains blank, devoid of malice or even awareness. It’s like watching a puppet move. The girl’s eyes squeeze shut, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek. The other passengers avert their eyes. An old woman sighs, shaking her head as she stares out the window at the passing buildings. A teenager in headphones taps his foot, pretending to be engrossed in his music.

The rhythmic sound of fabric rubbing assaults your ears. The man’s hips are making small, grinding motions against her. His hand is under her skirt now. The girl’s shoulders are hunched, her entire body rigid with an unnatural paralysis. A soft, choked whimper escapes her lips, lost in the rumble of the train.

Two women in their late twenties, dressed in smart office attire, stand huddled together. One has a strained, sympathetic smile. The other looks utterly exhausted, dark circles under her eyes.

“...and he just keeps leaving used tissues everywhere,” the exhausted one is saying, her voice a hissed whisper. “I found one stuck to the bathroom mirror this morning. It’s like living with a leaky faucet made of blood.”

“The nosebleed is the worst for boys his age,” the other woman replies, nodding sagely. She adjusts her glasses. “My nephew, you remember Taro? He got it last month. Fainted in the gym locker room after seeing the girls’ volleyball team in their shorts. Cracked his head on a bench. He’s fine, but his mother is at her wit’s end. The laundry…”

The first woman lets out a shuddering sigh. “Could be worse, I suppose” she says, her tone dropping even lower. She leans in. “My section chief turned last week. Ugly Bastard strain.”

Her friend’s eyes widen. “No.”

“Yes. Came in Monday with a comb-over trying to hide a new bald spot, gut hanging over his belt, and this… this smell of cheap whiskey and sweat. He called me into his office to ‘discuss my performance.’” She makes air quotes, her lips thinning. “Had his hand on my knee within thirty seconds. Said my boyfriend’s contract renewal was ‘looking precarious’ and maybe I could ‘help secure it’ over dinner.”

"Ugh…" The sound of disgust is barely audible from the first woman. “Poor John, he was always such a nice guy before. So what did you do?”

“I laughed. Couldn’t help it. Then I told him my boyfriend caught the NTR strain last month and is currently banging his own boss’s wife, so his contract is the least of my worries.” She shrugs, a brittle, humorless gesture. “The look on his face was almost worth it. Almost.”

Jesus. Everyone’s life is just… unraveling. And we’re all just comparing notes like it’s bad weather.

The train slows for the next station. The man’s movements become frantic, a final few thrusts against her uniform-clad backside. With a low, guttural groan that sounds almost pained, he shudders and goes still. The blankness leaves his eyes, replaced by dawning confusion and then horror. He snatches his hands back as if burned, staring at the wet patch now darkening the back of the girl’s skirt. He stumbles backwards, mumbling apologies that no one acknowledges, and flees onto the platform the second the doors open.

The girl sags against the pole, her textbook falling to the floor with a slap. She doesn’t move to pick it up. She just stands there, trembling, the evidence of the violation cooling on her clothes. No one offers her a seat. No one says a word. The train doors close, and the world moves on.

The pale morning light filters through the blinds of your room, painting stripes across the clutter of your desk. The smell of miso soup and rice drifts up from the kitchen. You hear a sudden slam of a door down the hall, followed by the distinct, rhythmic sound of a bedframe creaking against the wall. Squeak-squeak-squeak… thump-thump-thump. It’s coming from your younger sister Ayumi’s room. It’s been like this for weeks, the frantic sounds starting every morning around dawn. She used to sprint downstairs for breakfast cartoons. Now she stays locked in her room, only emerging hours later, looking flushed and exhausted, always wearing bulky sweatshirts even in summer.

Pulling on some clothes, you head downstairs. The TV in the living room is on, the morning news anchor struggling to keep a straight face. "…and authorities are advising citizens in the Shinjuku ward to avoid the area around the middle school due to another reported tentacle incursion. The Self-Defense Forces have been dispatched. In other news, the National Diet continues to debate the 'Non-Consensual Ejaculation Act', aimed at granting immunity to individuals in temporary fugue states on public transport…" Click

Yeah, nothing newsworthy here.

As you head downstairs, your other sister, Sachi, is leaning against the counter, scowling at her phone. She glances up as you enter, her face instantly twisting into a familiar sneer. "Ugh. It's you. You're blocking the light, you dumbass." Before you can even say good morning, she steps forward and delivers a sharp, stinging slap to your upper arm. SMACK. The sound echoes off the white kitchen tiles - they've heard it often over the last few months. Just a year ago, Sachi was the one who’d help you sneak out to parties, your partner-in-crime. Nowadays she can't go five minutes without throwing shit at you, only to then stomp off with shiny eyes. Even now, she turns away, her ears red, and busies herself with her schoolbag, roughly shoving books inside.

Your mom glides into the chaos, a picture of calm. "Sachi, sweetie, language," she says softly, but her eyes are on you. She’s holding a large Tupperware container. She’s already dressed for her office job, as she comes over and places a hand on your shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze that lingers a few seconds.

"I made you something special today. Pickled eel and ginger salad. Very… fortifying." She says the last word with a knowing little nod, avoiding your eyes as she hands you the box. You recall that yesterday it was oysters, and the day before that, a bottle of some weird herbal tea she swore would "help with your energy."

The trash can under the sink catches your eye. It’s brand new, the plastic liner crisp and clean. Your mom follows your gaze and her blush deepens. "Oh, I just… took out the garbage in your room this morning while you were sleeping. You shouldn’t let tissues pile up, it’s unsanitary," she says, her voice dropping to a whisper. The image of your mom quietly entering your room, gathering your used, crusty tissues from the bedside bin, flashes in your mind ... urgh, no thanks. But she’s been cleaning a lot lately, ever since dad… disappeared.

Speaking of dad, his absence is the loudest noise in the house. His chair at the head of the table is empty. His coffee mug sits unused in the cupboard. Mom says he’s on an extended "business trip," but there were no bags packed, no flight details, just a note left on the fridge that said "Gone to a better place, maybe?" in his messy scrawl. The news sometimes reports on random people vanishing, only to reappear weeks later with wild tales of fantasy worlds, or sometimes not reappearing at all. The term "isekai’d" has entered the common lexicon, a morbid joke nobody laughs at.

From upstairs, Ayumi’s door finally cracks open. She shuffles into view at the top of the stairs, looking paler than usual, dark circles under her eyes. She’s swimming in an oversized hoodie. "M-Morning,"" she mumbles, her voice hoarse and her posture hunched. She only meets your eyes for a split second, panic flashing in them, before she looks at the floor and shuffles toward the bathroom, walking with an oddly wide stance.

Sachi scoffs, shouldering her bag. "Freak," she mutters under her breath, though whether it's directed at you or Ayumi isn't clear. She storms out the front door without another word, slamming it behind her. BANG.

Hear that? That's the morning bell - better hurry to those gates if you don't want to be late for class. Once inside, you can see clusters of girls whispering intensely, their eyes darting towards a bland-looking boy with aggressively average features and hair, who is walking alone, oblivious, as a group of five girls from different cliques follow him at a distance, shooting daggers at each other. Harem strain. Of course. That’s Kenta, from Class 2-B. Lucky bastard has no idea he’s the center of a warzone.

The crowded shoe lockers are no better. The chatter around you is a fragmented glimpse into the new normal.

“—my brother still won’t stop looking at his magazines, I swear he’s going to bleed out—” “—the tentacle monster drill is third period, don’t forget your repellant sprays—” “—I heard a first-year grew a huge one in the bathroom yesterday, the nurses had to sedate her—”

Your classroom is upstairs, Class 3-C. The homeroom teacher, Mr. Tanaka, is already at his desk. He looks… different. His hair, usually neat, is thinning noticeably at the crown. His middle, once trim, strains against his button-down shirt. There’s a new, greasy pallor to his skin. When he looks up as students file in, his eyes, small and piggish behind his glasses, sweep over the female students with a slow, appraising gaze that wasn’t there last week. Oh, no. Not him too.

As class begins, he takes attendance in a low grumble. His gaze lingers on Aimi, a quiet girl who sits in the front row ... she used to be the teacher's pet. Now, with Mr. Tanaka turned ugly bastard, she shrinks in her seat, folding in on herself. Halfway through the roll call, the door slides open with a sharp bang.

A girl stumbles in. It’s Hana, from the track team. She’s always been athletic, but now she moves with a strange, bow-legged gait, her face pale and slick with sweat. Her uniform looks … strained at the front. A distinct, heavy bulge presses against the fabric. Whispers erupt instantly.

“Futanari strain…” “Look at her pants!” “Oh my god, is she…?”

Hana tries her best to ignore them, her eyes wild and unfocused. She makes a beeline for her desk, but as she passes the aisle next to Aimi, she seems to stumble. Her hand shoots out, grabbing Aimi’s desk for support. The movement jostles her, and a dark, wet patch rapidly blooms at the front of her skirt. A thick, musky scent hits the air.

drip… plip…

A single, viscous pearl of clear fluid drips from the hem of her skirt onto the linoleum floor. Hana lets out a shuddering gasp, her knuckles white on the desk. Aimi freezes, staring in horror at the droplet next to her feet.

Mr. Tanaka stands up, his chair scraping loudly. A nasty, eager smile spreads across his face. “Hana. My office. Now. And you…” His piggy eyes land on Aimi. “You come too. To help clean up this… mess.”

A sigh runs through the classroom, as Mr. Tanaka herds a trembling Aimi and a painfully erect, leaking Hana out of the classroom. The door clicks shut behind them. Great. Math is gonna be another self-study period. Tanaka’s probably got them bent over his desk already. Or maybe he’s making Hana fuck Aimi while he watches. Who the hell knows anymore.

The beginnings of a headache start to pulse at your temples - it's gonna be a long day at school.

The speed dating event is being held in a slightly too-bright community centre meeting room, the kind usually reserved for local council meetings or knitting clubs. Tonight, the fluorescent lights hum overhead, illuminating a dozen or so small round tables, each with two chairs facing each other. A wristband ticketed for group "B" clings to your arm. Someone has tried to make the place festive with a cheap, half-deflated silver balloon archway by the door, but it just looks sad and tired.

Around you, the other participants are milling about, clutching small cups of lukewarm filtered coffee or fruit punch. You can see the Strains on them, as plain as day. Over by the snack table, a man in a too-tight suit keeps running his hands through his bleach-blond hair, his tan so dark it looks orange under the lights. He’s staring intently at a woman chatting with a nervous-looking guy in glasses. The blond man’s eyes are locked on her left hand, where a cheap engagement ring glints. Ah, NTR strain. What is he doing at a speed dating event? Not gonna meet a lot of taken women here.

A few seats down, a petite girl with auburn hair is violently twisting the hem of her skirt, her face a mask of furious embarrassment. "It's not like I wanted to come here tonight, b-baka!" she suddenly barks at no one in particular, before clamping her hands over her own mouth, her eyes welling up with conflicted tears. Classic Tsundere.

At the sign-in desk, two figures are causing a slight stir. One is a short, but athletic-looking young man with delicate features, soft pink lips, and hips that sway slightly in his skinny jeans. He's trying to deepen his voice as he gives his name to the organizer, but it keeps slipping into a gentle, melodic tone. A Femboy, fighting the pull. You can almost see the thoughts behind his pretty face: Okay, just act normal. Don’t look at the guy with the broad shoulders by the door. Don't. He smells like cedar... goddammit!

The second figure is... larger. A woman in a stretched polo shirt, standing awkwardly with her thighs pressed together. A tell-tale, hefty bulge strains against the fabric of her chinos. She shifts her weight from foot to foot, a sheen of sweat on her forehead, but she's not fooling anyone. She needs release, and soon. A Futanari on the edge.

A buzzer on the wall lets out a harsh, blaring BRRRZZZZZT! It’s time. The organizer, a frazzled-looking woman, claps her hands. "Alright, Groups A and B! Group A, you are the sitters. Take your numbered seats. Group B, you are the rotators. When the buzzer sounds again in five minutes, you move one table to your left. Gentlemen, and, well... everyone, please be courteous. Let's begin!"

The participants shuffle into position, the squeak of chairs on linoleum filling the room. Time to pick your poison.